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Wait a second… did I just agree to going out on a date? Who is this Bella?
CHAPTER 5
Bella
What's awesome about being a writer is the sheer slackness of it. Words come out of my head, plop, and magically appear on the page, swoosh. I don’t even type. I dictate everything. Just a bunch of blah blah blah, all grammatically corrected by the software, sprouting on the page like little fairy footprints.
That's the theory, anyway.
In reality, it is not just a bunch of creative a-ha moments one right after another, stretching out for days on end. It's actually like ninety-five percent turning in meaningless circles while pelted with darts of self-doubt. That’s all punctuated by brief periods of actual work, and then I fill the rest of my waking moments with anxiety.
Actually, my sleeping moments too. I have dreams like you would not believe.
But still, it's not digging ditches, right? As my grandma would say, you gotta remember to be grateful. Cannot complain so much. Just think of the starving children in…
Oh, who am I kidding? It's tough. That's what I'm saying.
These are the thoughts that I've been thinking over and over again for the past day, stretched out of my sofa, balancing between doing one thing and doing another thing. Should I be getting dressed or undressed? Should I be eating or exercising? Should I be sleeping or awake?
I don't know. I really don't know.
Yesterday, I thought my life was fine. I thought it was all set. I thought I had followed through on a rare bout of discipline and self-determination and pushed through my writing challenges to get to the Promised Land. The land of creative liberty and respect from my peers. Serious Writer Land.
But no. I'm not. I'm still going to be writing puff pieces and makeup reviews and lifestyle BS. I'm not going to be a serious writer. Every fantasy that I've had of all the serious journalism — the eat-pray-love of my generation — has just evaporated in a puff of smoke.
So what I'm doing now is wallowing. I feel like I'm breaking up with a nice future boyfriend who never even really existed. I had a vision of myself so clear in my mind, and now it's gone. This is it.
Just how many more articles can I write about frickin’ mascara?? I want to scream.
My cell phone rings and I flip it over to squint at the face. Another 800 number. I swipe left to refuse the call.
See, that's the other thing. I've got bills to pay. And getting paid per click is just about doing it. I am almost able to pay my bills. Every month there’s a moment of panic — like, three days or so of wondering if the sky is really falling this time — then miraculously I have just enough. Maybe $100 extra if life is good.
It’s expensive to live in Chicago.
I need a book deal. Well, some might say first I need to write an actual book. But I should be able to take the work that I've already done and the prestige that Hannah was supposed to gift upon me like a queen offering me a duchy or something, and repackage all that jazz into a book deal. Like, get an agent and have her negotiate with Powers That Be. With an advance. Oh man, yes. That’s the life.
There are still some parts of the publishing industry that work, even in our brand-new economy and our brand-new media landscape. Authors still get advances, which they blow in spectacular fashion until they realize the deadline has reached critical levels and actual words need to get down on actual fucking pieces of paper, like immediately.
That’s the way the system has always worked, and it's a good system. I believe in it.
That collection call is followed promptly by another 888 number. What, do these guys call each other to know when to start the phone tree? Tag teams?
I swipe left on that one too and, with a groan, haul my lazy ass off the sofa. I need to get dressed. The car’s coming to get me at seven-thirty. It’s almost five-thirty now.
I've got two hours. Is that enough time? To shower, shave, and blowout my hair? Not really. This deadline, like so many others before it, is just coming up way too fast. If I was any kind of respectable woman, I would have washed my hair yesterday and put it in curlers overnight. Yeah, because that's what real women do. They plan ahead.
Well, tough. “Tough titty said the kitty when the milk ran dry,” that's another thing grandma said. She was really gifted with words. I guess she’s who I got my potty-mouth from.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room, chewing on my bottom lip with my head cocked to the side like a spaniel. Two hours? Dammit. My mind races back over the last thirty-odd hours… what exactly have I been doing? Moping? Feeling sorry for myself? Waving bye-bye to my imaginary future?
Dang. Sometimes I really gross myself out.
So, this hair… what are we gonna do about this? I start mumbling crazily to myself as I push my fingers into the big brown rat’s nest on top of my head. Should I go bo-ho? Maybe some kind of weirdly complicated and messy up-do? Do I have time to watch about thirty Youtube tutorials on messy up-dos?
“Focus, Bella,” I command my mirror image. My eyes are serious, my eyebrows arched.
No, I will not go watch a bunch of beauty videos. That's a good way to make sure I’m still my underwear when the car gets here.
